The spokes inside my wheel Are threaded to a gypsy cartThat travel an aimless pathWith nature at it’s heartNatures paths are never straight Meandering they wind and stray awaiting the new horizonsAnd the challenges of everydayI am not really one of themThough I dress as if I amI’ll keep that little secretTill truth breaches the damWhy Iam prepared to tell a lie In a tribe I don’t belongFor I wasn’t born a gypsyStill I sing their campfire song’May be it’s because I was Outsider, as artists often areTrying to heal a deepened pain But finding meaning in it’s scarOh I was young and everydayWas a play where we acted Out a partThat stained me with a meaningThat I painted in my art

Oh Wow, what a wonderful gift! Tim, Ti-Ti- Tim! I am always amazed by you. That swirling pattern around the face did not really make sense to me, but you connected this beautifully and seamlessly! Thank you dearly for your gift of words. xx.